


Synonymous

by ohladygrey



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-21
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-20 05:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1497724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohladygrey/pseuds/ohladygrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Romance novelist Meg Riley thinks her day can't get any worse - and then it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synonymous

It was a stinking piss-hole of a day that was for sure. Typical bloody Britain. Meg Riley, bullshit pusher of epic proportions, sighed loudly and raked back her hair from her forehead for the umpteenth time in so many minutes. Three thesauruses around her laptop as well as an online one open in her browser and she was still stumped. How many times could you say the word cock and in how many different ways without it sounding… twee? And did it even matter? Her life was a fucking joke anyway.

And it didn’t help that the librarian in his vest-cardigan-thing kept looking at her and making these little annoyed sounds every time she did so much as breathe louder than a whisper. He looked pointedly at her as she began to type again, so she made sure to clack the keys louder than probably necessary. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him sigh heavenward, put some books on his little trolley and point his nose in the air before hurrying off away to some other section of the library far away from her.

She may or may not have been able to find many more available study nooks further away from his office. She may or may not have ceased to care. Annoying the buttoned-up man brought some relief from the endless drivel of the dashing, brooding Captain Horatio and the charmingly naïve heroine Arabella and their soaring romance. Yes, she was a romance novelist. And not even a good one. One of those ones that wrote the cheap paperbacks you picked up for a bargain at a second-hand shop. _That_ type.

Meg scowled at the computer screen. She was going to write something good one day, she knew it. She just needed to pay the bills first. With two kids at home, she couldn’t very well just sit around trying to write the great British novel of the 21st century. It wasn’t like Tom was going to start paying more money to support her, despite his own generous royalty cheques. He had his new family now, with that wife who looked like a movie star without all the extra padding Meg had – not that she was complaining, she _liked_ extra padding. Oh, and he had a movie deal maybe. Bastard.

She needed to stop thinking about Tom before Horatio lost his head in an unfortunate pirate raid.

Someone cleared their throat behind her. “The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say,” that haughty voice one often heard calling out such gems as ‘this library is a sanctum’ and ‘would you _please_ respect the books, they are worth more than you’ spoke and Meg had to suppress an eye roll.

She turned a little in her seat and the librarian looked at her patiently over his spectacles. Only on this man would a word as simple and benign as glasses be turned into such a word as spectacles. “Yes, well, thank you,” Meg replied, her voice verging on impatience. “I will keep that in mind when I’m actually writing something more valuable than loo paper.”

“Fascinating woman, Anais Nin,” he continued, brushing down the brown monstrosity that was, of course, a knitted vest, before unceremoniously pulling the chair from the nook beside hers and sitting down. In her space. Without, it seemed, any intention of leaving promptly. “Not only was she best known as a diarist, but she is also hailed as one of the best writers of female erotica. In fact, she was one of the first women to explore the genre. Isn’t it fascinating that it is such a prolific area in our day and age?”

What could really be said to that? Meg blinked then replied, “Yes, well, very fascinating I suppose.”

“Indeed!” he seemed to be on a roll now, his eyes lighting up with excitement. It was almost endearing. “Though she did not write the sort of romanticised erotica we are used to, no, she wrote about some very controversial and taboo topics. I feel that the amount of erotic romantic fiction in the market rather makes this whole revolutionised female erotica into some sort of joke unfortunately.”

Did she say endearing? Meg clenched her jaw, tried to count to ten, and opened her mouth- “I am dreadfully sorry, I’m Edward Buchan, I have seen you here many times. I thought I could perhaps help, you see I have an extensive knowledge which is a largely untapped resource, though perhaps better suited to something more grandiose than the likes of _Mills & Boon_,” Buchan seemed very proud of his little speech and held out his hand as if they were about to become best chums.

“Clearly,” Meg couldn’t help that her voice came out a little more brittle than was polite. She knew all about how much better everyone was than her, how she should stop trying or just give up. She didn’t need to hear that sort of thing from a perfect stranger – even though she admitted as much to herself all the time. “Well _Ed_ , thanks for this charming little rapport, but I’ve got a deadline to feed and kids at home to meet. I mean- well you know- anyway, thanks but no thanks. I don’t want to bother you with my sub-par writing efforts.” This last statement was emphasised with a snap as she closed her laptop, putting away her things as quickly as possible.

Should she put away the thesaurus’ she’s been using? Fuck it. Buchan looked slightly taken aback, his bewildered face slightly reminding her of a goldfish, but Meg was nothing if not a woman of her word. “Oh heavens no I didn’t-” the librarian began, following as she began to stalk out of the doors. He didn’t follow her all the way out or finish his sentence. She tried to bring herself not to care.

* * *

Suffice to say, Meg didn’t expect to see herself cozied up in Edward Buchan’s office after-hours the next evening by the little floor heater which kept the whole space comfortably warm. She’d come to the library, skilfully managed to avoid being spotted by the man for the whole day, only to blunder into his damn trolley on her way out at closing time.

This day his vest was red and his glasses were resting against his chest, attached to those god-awful glasses-holder-things that go around your neck that she was sure until today that only seventy year-olds, not forty-something year-olds, wore. Good lord, there was even a _doily_ under the tea-pot. “My friends have often told me that in my eagerness I often blunder in without thinking,” Buchan said apologetically, handing Meg a tea-cup that was probably the best quality china; he was that type of a guy. “Bull in a bloody china shop, Miles would say.”

Buchan was a slight man, and though he seemed to bustle like an old woman, there was no denying a certain care and grace as he sat opposite her, balancing his own cup and saucer in between both hands. He looked up at her with a quick smile, before looking down as if fascinated by the steam rising and curling up from the tea. Bull in a china shop metaphorically, then, Meg thought with some amusement, though she couldn’t completely banish her hurt feelings.

“So I must clarify my thoughts to you, if I would Ms Riley,” she wondered how he knew her name, almost slapped herself for being stupid because, of course, she’d borrowed books and he’d lent them out to her. “I didn’t mean to imply that you are someone that should be mocked because of what you write, despite the fact that it is less valuable than ‘loo paper’. What I meant to say was that, I could help you now and later if you wanted to write something different. At the risk of sounding somewhat strange, I know that you started writing romance novels only recently. Before you used to borrow all sorts of interesting things, you’d research here with a smile on your face – I myself know how that feels. If you are in a position to do that again, I should like to help you with that too.”

Slightly strange and weird to know you’ve been observed by your librarian, yes, though considering this was a very small library and Buchan addressed almost everyone by name, Meg didn’t think much got past him. He didn’t look at her at all after he’d concluded his speech, simply sipping his tea with a studied air of indifference. God, who would have thought a pedantic little shit of a man like Edward Buchan could be embarrassed? “So, what, you love research that much you want to help me some time in the indefinite future when I manage to actually make enough to do something I don’t hate myself for?”

Buchan probably hadn’t been expecting such an amiable reply and looked at her quickly, his hand stuttering a little as he replaced cup on saucer, china rattling against china. “I do hunger for knowledge. There are always new things to explore,” he admitted, setting the tea cup down on the desk and studiously avoiding Meg’s gaze once more. “Though I will not say that spending more time with you would be something I would find displeasing in any way.”

Colour tinted Buchan’s pale cheeks and Meg had to bite her lip. Endearing, oh god, Edward Buchan was downright endearing and all other words synonymous with that. “Well, when you put it that way, I don’t see why we can’t work together, if you’ve the time,” she said carefully, placing her own tea beside his, the saucers just on the verge of touching. “It won’t be particularly exciting though.”

“Megan, despite what you write now, it’s clear that with a mind quite so exquisitely vibrant as yours around, life could never quite be the same again,” this was said rather quietly and to Buchan’s doily rather than to Meg herself, but he looked up in time to catch her brilliant smile.

“Ed, that would have been the sweetest thing anybody’s said to me, if you replaced the Megan with Meg,” she told him frankly and he chuckled a little, watching as Meg’s hand reached out to retrieve her cup. He intercepted, soft, large hand coming to cover hers and their eyes met, his shy, while hers were bright with laughter.

“Very well, Meg. And though you obviously don’t need my permission, you could do worse than to call me Ed.”

The next day, Joe Chandler, Editor-in-Chief of Anderson and Co. Publishers was forced to cough up £20 to his Editor Ray Miles after being informed that “Buchan bloody well did it!”

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my sister (blacktea-and-tragedy on tumblr) for not writing this fic so I could and for continuously loving everything I do, even when it's not so great.


End file.
